


Get Scrooged

by alby_mangroves, leveragehunters (Monkeygreen)



Category: A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens, Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Art, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes in Bucharest, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Fluff and Angst, Ghosts of Christmas, Happy Ending, Illustrated, M/M, Magical Realism, Minor Violence, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Not Captain America: First Vengeance compliant, POV Bucky Barnes, References to A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens, Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-15 11:22:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13029987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alby_mangroves/pseuds/alby_mangroves, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monkeygreen/pseuds/leveragehunters
Summary: You'll be haunted by three spirits. The first is gonna come tomorrow when the bell tolls one. That's in the morning. The second's gonna come the next day at the same time, and the third, same again.Bucky was keeping his head down in his tiny apartment in Bucharest, because that's what you did when you were a former brainwashed assassin and never knew who might be coming after you. You kept your head down, you didn't draw attention, and you tried real hard not to think about what you'd done, all while trying to piece together your fractured memory.But it doesn't matter how down you keep your head—once the Bureau of Christmas Spirit has you in its sights, you're getting a visit from the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Yet to Come. No appeal, no review, and you can't lock the doors and pretend you're not home.Luckily for Bucky his Ghosts have their own agenda, but whatever happens...someone's getting Scrooged.





	1. Intro: The Bureau of Christmas Spirit

**Author's Note:**

> So, this sticks pretty close to Dickens' _A Christmas Carol_ (including a couple of lines lifted whole cloth from the original), except for when it goes haring off wildly in a completely different direction. Dickens used staves instead of chapters, because of course it was a Christmas _Carol_ ; I've doubled down on the musical theme, adding an intro and a couple of bridges. Canon-wise, in this fic none of the movies after Winter Soldier happened, but I've harvested bits from Ultron and Civil War. 
> 
> The wonderful alby_mangroves ([Artgroves on Tumblr](http://artgroves.tumblr.com)) gave us the incredible art (continuing Dickens' tradition of an illustrated Christmas Carol!), in what was pretty damn short notice, and I'm awed and blown away by both her talent and her generosity. 
> 
> As an aside: When Dickens wrote _A Christmas Carol_ he wasn't just telling a tale of Christmas; [he was trying to change the world he lived in.](http://time.com/4597964/history-charles-dickens-christmas-carol) Not quite in the way he's remembered for, but he was trying to do something good. If you've never read it, [it's worth doing so](http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/46?msg=welcome_stranger), just don't read it when you're hungry (the guy really goes into detail about the food).

_Dickens is responsible for Christmas as we know it...what he did with A Christmas Carol began the process that led to what we have today. The publication of A Christmas Carol added an emotional component to Christmas and changed it. We will never know what Christmas would be like without Charles Dickens, but it would never have been quite the same as we enjoy today without him._

-Professor Standiford, _The Man Who Invented Christmas_

* * *

 

The Bureau of Christmas Spirit was bustling, staffers rushing through the infinite office, double-checking everything was in order—four spirits for every file, approved events for every scenario—making any necessary last-minute adjustments. Not surprising, given the first time zone was about to tick over into Christmas Eve.

The Season was about to start.

It never used to be like this. Once upon a time spiritual interventions had been carefully crafted, personally-tailored redemption events, carried out by highly-skilled spirits, not tied to any particular human holiday. Now, Subject selection was automated, files popping out of the ether if they met set criteria, with no regard for the individual. All that mattered nowadays was Total Generated Christmas Spirit, or TGCS—bureaucracy had always been keen on acronyms and the BCS was no exception. 

It was all bloody Dickens' fault. To be fair—not that fair was high on his list of priorities as he eyed the file sitting on his desk—it was also the fault of whoever had whispered in Dickens' ear about spiritual interventions. Someone had to have done it; no one came that close to accurate without a bit of inside knowledge.

He was sure whoever had whispered in Dickens' ear had meant well, and he could _almost_ understand the urge—Dickens had been trying to do something good—but there was a reason inspiration was left to the Muses. They knew how to handle the law of unintended consequences.

Unintended consequences like spiritual interventions being shuffled completely to Christmas, prompted by humans' newly kindled love of the season, thanks to Dickens' bloody book, and the resultant driving of Christmas spirit to previously unseen heights. Unintended consequences like the Bureau of Christmas Spirit.

Unintended consequences like most of the old spirits, the traditional spirits, the talented and skilled, refusing to be associated with Scrooging. Unintended consequences like spiritual interventions being renamed _Scrooging!_ Scrooging—it lacked anything approaching dignity, but it was a perfect fit for what had become assembly-line redemption.

More than a few times he'd given serious consideration to discorporating, returning to the void like the rest of the old spirits, but he didn't. He stayed. He'd been performing spiritual interventions centuries before Dickens had written his book, for centuries before the BCS was created, back when spirits could be more than just Christmas Past, Present, or Yet to Come—or, of course, the Marley.

There was a reason Dickens' story kept getting retold: because, year after year, humans kept reliving it. The BCS saw to that.

Every year it was the same thing, yet still he stayed. Time and experience had seen his inevitable promotion, first to Supervisor, then to Senior Supervisor, and finally, inevitably, to Commissioner, responsible for the entire BCS. 

When the old spirits had left, refusing to be involved with the BCS, they'd had to find more creative ways to fill the role of Christmas Ghosts.

The first choice was actual ghosts, but they weren't always available or willing. When they couldn't call on the spirits of the dead they had to get a little more creative. There wasn't a person alive who wasn't haunted by the ghosts of who they used to be, and it only took a touch of duly exercised BCS power to make that a bit more literal.

Normally it went off without a hitch. Metaphysical concepts were generally grateful enough to exist for a few days that they didn't ask any questions or cause any trouble. Normally they followed instructions, played their role all neat and tidy, then puffed out of existence once more.

_Normally._

The staffer who'd brought him this file, head down and cringing slightly, asking, _Maybe there's been a mistake?_ had been discorporated. Immediately. There wasn't room for _maybe there's been a mistake._ Time was tight. Files arrived, they were assigned and processed, Ghosts were organised, Scroogings were set in motion.

Of course a discorporated staffer left _him_ stuck dealing with the file.

Worse, and more to the point, it left him stuck dealing with three formerly metaphysical concepts, currently manifesting as spirits, crowding into the doorway of his office.

They were glaring so fiercely he half-expected his desk to catch fire. Apparently they weren't even slightly grateful at being given the chance to exist for a few days. Why they'd bothered to answer the call in the first place if they were so angry about the Subject being selected, he didn't know.

He also didn't care. He was the Commissioner of the BCS; he didn't have time for this. "The Subject met the criteria. If one of you doesn't want to play your role, I can call up a replacement, but with you or without you, the Subject's getting Scrooged."


	2. Stave I: The Marley

It might be said that it was a mistake to venture out into a Bucharest marketplace on the day of Christmas Eve. Certainly the man who had been Bucky, who had been Sergeant James Barnes, who had been the Winter Soldier, was beginning to think so. It was loud and raucous, the crowds were incessant, laughing and bright, pushing and shoving cheerfully. Christmas carols filled the air, meeting the counterpoint of the drums as the dubasi, some thirty men strong, strolled past, and lights were strung haphazardly from every tree.

All that the man who'd cautiously begun to think of himself as _Bucky_ wanted was to finish what he'd come out here to do and get back to his apartment, where the crowds and lights and noise and bright cheer couldn’t follow.

He stopped at the grocers and quickly collected the few items he needed. The woman behind the counter, wrinkled and plump and made of smiles, her steel-grey hair pulled back in a tight bun, grinned and wished him a Merry Christmas.

He returned her smile, if not her wishes, and she tutted at him. Not for the lack of season's greeting, he soon discovered, but for the lack of sweets in his shopping.

"What will you give the children when they come carolling tonight?" she asked. She always spoke carefully to him, her Romanian clear and clean, as if making sure he could understand.

"I don't think there'll be any kids in my building," he replied after a pause that was longer than it probably should have been, but she simply regarded him patiently, the same as she always did. It occurred to him that those too-long pauses might be why she thought he had problems with the language.  

"Nonsense," she replied, reaching under the counter to grab two handfuls of paper-wrapped sweets. She dropped them into the bag with his bread and soap and toothpaste and thick wool socks. "My grandson's with them this year, he's the _capra_ , and he's been practicing his dancing. They'll go to every building. Even yours."

He gave a little shake of his head, not quite disagreeing, and asked, "How much for the candy?"

"Nothing." She made a shooing motion with her hands. "A gift. Now off you go."

He paid her for everything else, then ducked his head, gave her another tiny smile, and hurried off. He kind of wished he could have left the candy behind, but it would've hurt her feelings and worse, it would have made him stand out. Made him noticeable. She'd only given him a few handfuls of candy. It didn't matter. It wasn't important.

Bucky didn't look back as he wove through the crowds, careful not to move as quickly as he could, careful not to show how twitchy they made him, as he hurried to the butcher shop.

The butcher beamed as he walked in. Bucky gave him a tentative nod, then hovered near the back of the crowded shop, studying the bells hanging on the Christmas tree. They had no clappers, were decorative only, but he passed the time while he waited his turn examining each bell, looking for any that might ring.

"Now," the butcher called, catching his eye, and Bucky took his place at the glass fronted counter, "I was hoping to see you! I have something for you." It made him want to turn around and walk out, and he could have, because the butcher disappeared into the back, but the other shoppers would notice him if he suddenly left, and he had to come back here.

Instead he pulled his cap low and pretended to study the various meats in the display case.

"Now this is for you," the butcher said when he returned. He passed a small paper-wrapped parcel across the counter and Bucky had no choice but to take it. "It's from our family's pig. Just a small piece, just enough for one." The butcher's eyes were shrewd, full of too much understanding. Bucky didn't know his name, he'd never learned his name, or the name of the woman in the grocers, but that didn't stop people from seeing him, no matter how hard he tried to slide through their lives like a ghost. "This year's pig was _magnificent_ , far more than we need, and I thought, who could use a touch of Christmas this year?" 

He wanted to _flee_. Instead, he managed a smile and a, "Thanks." He knew he should say more, but he couldn't.

The butcher didn't seem to mind. "It's what Christmas is all about. Now, you must have come in for a reason. What can I get for you?"

He got his meat, cheap off-cuts he could make into sandwiches, and left, heading back to his apartment. Everywhere he looked people were greeting each other, were _being together_ , hugging, touching, laughing. The sky was slipping towards darkness and the lights were flicking on, the tree in the centre of the square a glistening, glittering centrepiece to an impromptu dance.

Bucky put his head down, hunched his shoulders, and didn't look up until he was safely behind his door. He threw the bolts and studied his apartment, automatic assessment: had anything changed, was anything out of place, was everything _in place_ , ready to serve as impromptu defence if the moment came.

All was as he'd left it.

The lights he left off, in case the carollers did lose all sense and come into the building. He couldn’t imagine it, no matter what the woman in the grocers said. The building's owners had rented an apartment to _him_ , no questions asked; it wasn't the kind of place children were going to come wandering. He stripped off his gloves and took off his hat, tossing them both on the threadbare couch, and put his groceries away, including the piece of pork he wasn't sure how to cook.

The sweets he hesitated over, then poured them into a chipped bowl and put them on top of the fridge.

He understood why she'd given them to him. He even understood why the butcher had given him the meat. They thought well of him, because he was always polite, always softly-spoken, always offered a smile. He knew how to be a person. When it wasn't crowded to the top of the streetlights, sometimes he didn't even mind being out there in the square, unnoticed, watching people come and go.

But when they noticed _him,_ when they saw _him_ , like today, he grew more and more unsettled. It wasn't safe for people to see _him._

With a shake of his head he pushed the thoughts away and made a sandwich, ate it standing at the sink because it was easier, and washed the crumbs away down the drain when he was finished. As he turned his head he caught his reflection in the surface of the toaster and, for just a moment, he thought it looked different. Younger. Innocent, all short hair and hopeful eyes. He shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his forehead, and when he opened them it was gone, his weary, stubbled face staring back at him.

It was cold and growing colder as Bucky stripped off, swapping walking-around clothes for his new wool socks, a double layer of shirts, and thick, warm pants, fuzzy on the inside, and settled into his sleeping bag. The heat was touch and go in his apartment, and at the moment it was obviously feeling touchy. He pulled his sleeping bag tighter around him and stared into the darkness, knowing he wouldn't sleep.

Time seemed to flow strangely as Bucky lay in the dark when out of nowhere a bell rang out. He tensed, plates on his metal arm whirring a discordant accompaniment, but it _was_ Christmas Eve. They must be ringing the church bells for Christmas.

It was a deep sound, resonating through the air and settling in his chest until he felt like he was breathing it in.

Twelve rings. Midnight. That made it Christmas Day. _At least there weren't any carollers._

The room grew colder, the air shimmered, and a figure appeared. "There's a whole lotta of crap I'm supposed to pull here," it said. "But I figured that was just gonna end up with you trashing the place. And the whole reason _I'm_ here is we decided I was the least likely to set you off, so deliberately trying to scare you would've defeated the purpose."

Bucky stared, and well he might, because the figure standing before him was both entirely strange and achingly familiar. He was so strangely familiar, in fact, that despite having deeply ingrained protocols for someone appearing in his apartment, Bucky didn't react beyond continuing to stare.

"You doin' okay there?" the new arrival asked and, however strange this was, it would be wrong to call him a stranger.

"Yeah," Bucky replied, which was, in every way that mattered, a lie.

Light surrounded the newcomer, it shone from inside him, and he glowed with a pale radiance. "Okay if I come a bit closer?" he asked.

Bucky simply nodded, words beyond him at this point.

The man, and Bucky wasn't sure if _man_ was the right word to be using, either in the _mortal_ sense or in the _all grown up_ sense, slowly walked closer, obviously taking care not to startle Bucky. When he was standing over Bucky, Bucky could see him clearly and he was so damn young. There was a neat crease in his dark pants, but the collar of his shirt was open, his coat unbuttoned, easy and casual. His eyes were bright and full of hope, his short hair carefully styled, his face smooth—did he even need to shave regularly yet? Most telling of all, Bucky could see the pale skin of his left hand where it was sticking out of his sleeve.

Because it was _himself_ looking down at him.  A too-damn-young version of himself.

They stared at each other for a long time until finally, without taking his eyes off the too-damn-young version of himself, Bucky pinched his right arm with his metal fingers. Hard.  

And jumped, hissing in pain, staring at his metal hand in betrayal.

"I'm not a dream."

"I was more thinking nightmare," Bucky said.  

"Guess I can't blame you for that one. Want an explanation?"

 "Is there one?"

"Yeah, but you ain't gonna like it."

"Story of my life." Bucky climbed out of the sleeping bag and stood. Whatever this was, he'd face it on his feet. "Who are you?"

"I'm just what it looks like. I'm you, but you from a long time ago."

Bucky ran his right hand through his hair, feeling how badly it wanted to shake, but he wouldn't let it. "And you're here because?"

"That's where some bullshit comes in." The newcomer, his younger self, eyes bright with something Bucky was almost positive was anger, asked, "Do you remember goin' to the movies with Steve? It was nearly Christmas, you were supposed to go with Mary-Jo, she was gonna bring someone for Steve so we could double, then she didn't bother? When you wouldn't send Steve off, she went home in a huff?"

"Not even a little, sorry."

"Right. Okay. Do you remember Steve gettin' really mad at a movie because Tiny Tim was supposed to be so sick he was gonna die, and Steve sayin' what was he supposed to be dying of, being too healthy?" He grinned suddenly. "Or maybe bein' too creepy?"

 _That_ tickled something, a long buried memory, Steve scowling up at the screen, arms folded, Bucky nudging his ribs, not daring to show how much he wanted to laugh at him. "Did I tell him to calm down, it was only a movie?"

His younger self looked momentarily pleased, but it faded a little, his eyes growing intent. "Yeah, you did. Do you remember what the movie was?"

Bucky frowned, reaching for it, using the memory of Steve as his anchor to cast way down deep. He pulled back _Christmas_ and _cold_ and various aches. The seats had been uncomfortable, a spring digging into his ass. Into _his_ ass, because he'd made Steve change seats, and hadn't that been a production, Steve finally swapping just to get him to shut up. The air had been thick with the smell of popcorn. It had been chilly, Steve's hands had been freezing so he'd shoved them in his jacket pocket while they'd watched ghosts appear at Christmas and...

...and with a burst of understanding he knew what his younger self was getting at. It was _impossible_ , but he understood. "You're kidding."

"Afraid not."

Even he was vaguely aware of the story, and he looked around his apartment. At the newspaper glued to the windows, at the scrounged palettes and shelves, at his threadbare couch, at the sum total of his life that barely amounted to something you could call a life, and said, "Not sure where I put all my money, but if you could point me to it, I'll be sure to stop being miserly right away and we can skip the ghostly visitations." 

"Sorry, pal," and the genuine sorrow on that too-young face worried him, "that's not how it works. Apparently there's a lot more that can wrap you in chains than being a miser." His younger self clenched his hands into fists. "And this isn't fair, but apparently that doesn’t count for anything. Apparently they just grab anyone who's got chains and they don't give a damn how they got 'em."

Bucky's brows pulled down in confusion. "I've got...chains?"

"Yeah." His younger self ran a hand though his hair. "You okay if I sit? This is gonna take some explainin'."

He waved a hand at the couch and watched, intrigued, half-expecting his younger self to sink right through to the floor. He didn't, but the couch didn't give under his weight.

"See, here's the thing as best I can understand it. Not that the guy in charge was interested in spendin' time explaining much or answerin' any questions or listening to anything we had to say," he muttered. "There's these chains, and people end up wearing 'em, they forge 'em, link by link from the things they do. And that's all fair and right, I guess, I've got no beef with that. Except when it's wrong."

His younger self, who should have been untouched by any of the horrors Bucky had lived, held out his hand and twisted it _just so_. Spectral chains, the colour of rust, appeared, circling his body, hanging off his outstretched arm.

It was unthinking instinct, metal plates whirring, that had Bucky reaching out to snatch at them, to try and drag them off, to free his younger self, but his hands passed right through them.

"It's not that simple," his younger self said gently.

"Do I have—" Bucky began, and stopped.

"Yeah," his younger self replied, grimacing, and shook himself, the chains fading from view. "These are the ones you're wearing. I'm still you, sort of. I'm part of you, so I'm wearing them, too. The chains are why this is happening, why you got picked. But you shouldn't have 'em." Frustration sharpened every word. "You made them, but they're not yours. The things you did you're not responsible for, you're not responsible for any of it, but you still made these chains for yourself. They're not permanent yet, not set." The corner of his mouth lifted, but it wasn't a smile. "Think more ghosts of what _could be_ , and you can still get rid of 'em, but what they had planned isn't gonna work, because they don't understand. They don't understand you. They don't understand what happened and they don't _care_."

Bucky stared at him in incomprehension, because he'd understood the words, but the only part which had made _sense_ had been _the things you did you're not responsible_ _for_ , and he shied away from that as if from a blow.

His younger self shook his head. "Look, I get this doesn't make a lot of sense, but you've got to trust me. We've got this. We're gonna take care of you."

"We?"

"I can't tell you. You'll have to wait and see." Bucky opened his mouth but no words came out, so he closed it again. "I don't have a lot of time and there's things I _do_ have to tell you. So let's get 'em out of the way. You'll be haunted by three spirits, the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Yet to Come. The first is gonna come tomorrow when the bell tolls one. That's in the morning. The second's gonna come the next day at the same time, and the third, same again. And no, you can't have 'em all at once and get it over with."

"How do I know this is even happening? How do I know there wasn't salmonella in my sandwich or something? Or maybe the butcher drugged me."

His younger self held out his hand. "Touch me."

Bucky eyed him. "You're a ghost. Shouldn't touching be one of the things I can't do?"

"I'm a ghost who's setting my own rules. Here. Touch me."

Slowly, cautiously, he reached out and, disregarding the offered hand, poked him in the shoulder. It felt solid, it felt real. "Huh."

His younger self lifted his hand to touch Bucky and Bucky leaned back, avoiding it; the hand fell away and his younger self's eyes were gentle. "We couldn't stop them from doin' this to you, but they had to hand us a fair chunk of power when we agreed to be part of it. We're gonna bend things as far as we can."

"You remind me of someone."

His younger self grinned and he couldn't help smiling back. It faded when the grin changed into a grimace. "There's one more thing I have to do. I don't want to, but I have to." He walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. "I need you to look at the sky. You're not gonna like it."

Bucky stood at his younger self's shoulder and did as he asked. The air was filled with…ghosts, he guessed. Maybe they were supposed to be frightening, he didn't know. Only very specific things scared him these days, and phantoms—flying back and forth and moaning, every one of them _buried_ in thick lengths of solid chains, coloured rust red and shining silver and the dull grey of ancient iron—didn't make the list.

"Or maybe it won't bug you at all," his younger self said, observing his lack of reaction. "All right. I've shown you the chains, told you about the ghosts, and shown you these things. Those are the three must-dos on my list. Now you should get some shut-eye."

"Are you my keeper now?"

"No, but I _am_ you, and I'm tellin' you to go to bed. I know how much you don't sleep. And I may not have all that much time left, but I've got some and if you've got me here, keeping watch, maybe you can catch a few Zs."

It should have been a ludicrous notion, that the presence of a spirit should lend itself to a more restful sleep, but he lay down on his mattress and dragged the sleeping bag over himself. He was tired, but he was always tired, and he stared into the dark, the faint glow of his younger self casting warm light over his face.

The mattress didn't settle as his younger self sat next to him. "How about you close 'em."

He did as he was told, letting his eyes slip shut.

"I can't tell you who it is, but I can tell you you're not gonna hate the next one. And I'll try and come back if I can."

There was a gentle pat on his arm and he was surprised to feel himself succumbing to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go [here to reblog the amazing art for this chapter on Tumblr](http://artgroves.tumblr.com/post/168851696584/im-just-what-it-looks-like-im-you-but-you) and show Alby some love.


	3. Stave II: The First of the Three Spirits

When Bucky awoke it was dark. Completely dark, which wasn't unusual. What was unusual was that he felt rested. As he lay in the dark, pondering the unique feeling, wondering exactly why he'd had a dream that strange, a bell began to toll. He stared at the ceiling, not that he could see it but he knew where it was, and counted out the rings. Twelve. Midnight. Again. Or for the first time. He screwed up his face and shook his head.

For the first time. It _had_ to have been a dream.

He knew for a fact he wouldn't be getting back to sleep, so he dragged himself out of bed, wrapped the sleeping bag around himself like a robe, and shuffled over to the kitchen counter to make himself a hot chocolate. When he was done, he sat on his tiny couch and sipped it, staring into the dark.

It'd been the most real damn dream he'd ever had that didn't involve blood and death. He sat and drank and thought and wondered what sequence of events had caused it.

_If it was a dream._

Of course it was a dream. Thinking anything else was stupid.

The bell rang out again, a single toll, and he wondered if they'd keep going once Christmas was over. He wasn't sure where the church even was; he couldn’t remember seeing one close enough he'd be able to hear the bells ring.

Light flashed, illuminating the apartment. A figure appeared. Bucky hauled back and threw the mug at it, pure reflex, but it ricocheted, as if it had bounced off an invisible force field, and smashed against the wall.

The figure was strange, slight and slim, but it had a strong, stubborn jaw and big hands, like they'd come from an older, stronger man. Its hair was blond, glowing like a candle flame with its own light and its eyes were the brightest blue. Its feet were bare and its thin legs poked out from underneath a tunic of the purest white, belted with a lustrous, shiny belt. In one hand it carried a fresh sprig of winter holly and its tunic was trimmed with spring flowers.

In studied contrast to the ethereal and innocent manner of its dress, it—or, rather, he, for it was most assuredly a he—was glaring at Bucky. "Nice. Nice way to say hello. Throw a damn mug at my head."

"Steve?"

Bucky barely got the word out, and it was hard to blame him when he'd suddenly come face to face with the beloved friend of his youth. Because that's exactly who it was: this Steve could have been pulled from the same point in history as the Bucky he'd dreamed of earlier. _I guess it wasn't a dream._

Slowly Steve's expression softened. "Yeah, Bucky, it's me."

There were too many feelings battling inside Bucky for him to say much. Some were fighting to be heard, some were fighting to flee. All he managed to give voice to was, "Why are you wearing a dress?"

The scowl came back. "What's wrong with wearing a dress?"

"Nothing. Nothing! It's just a little," he waved a hand at the diaphanous affair, clinging to Steve's bony knees, dainty and pale and delicate, "not you."

Steve's brows furrowed in concentration and the tunic spun away, replaced by a white button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, brown pants and suspenders, scuffed black shoes peeking out from under the hems. The holly was still in his hand. "Better?"

Bucky nodded. "I guess you're the first spirit."

"That's me. The Ghost of Christmas Past."

Out of nowhere, a wave of blinding, heart-stopping dread crashed down on him. " _Ghost_ of Christmas Past. Does that mean, is he, are you—" Steve looked back at him, not comprehending, and he forced the words out. "Is he dead?"

Understanding flared and Steve tossed the holly aside in favour of grabbing hold of Bucky's shoulders, bending down to look him straight in the eyes, his hands that had always been too strong, no matter his size, gripping tight. "No. No, he's alive. I'm the ghost of who he used to be, same as the you that showed up to tell you about all this. He did show up, right?"

Steve's touch froze him in place. He didn't know what to do. He wanted to run and he wanted to viciously shove him away and he wanted to drop to the ground at Steve's feet and beg for absolution he knew wasn't Steve's to give.

It took Steve a bit to figure out the problem, then he eased away, hands falling to his sides. "Sorry, Buck."

He shook his head, lack of words becoming a standard state of being at this point.

"I've only got so much time, so we'd better get started." Steve held out his hand. "I'm gonna need you to take my hand, and I'm gonna need you to trust me. It's gonna get bad."

He looked first at Steve's eyes, which were a brighter blue than they'd ever been, and then at his hand, which was big and steady and woke a sense of longing deep inside him that he ruthlessly shoved away. He wasn't sure if he trusted him, but if there was anyone he was going to trust it'd be Steve. Which Steve it was didn't matter, because the truth was that for all the things Bucky didn't remember, he knew there was only one Steve. However the world tried to paint Captain America—and he'd read enough now he considered himself something of an expert on that point—there was always and ever only going to be one Steve.

Bucky took his hand.

Steve smiled and pulled him to his feet, led him to the window which was open, breeze ruffling the curtains. "We're gonna walk out the window, aren't we?"

"We are."

There was no question, no hesitation as he said, "But you won't let me fall."

A complicated expression passed over Steve's face and his hand tightened around Bucky's. "No."

They stepped out and through the window and into empty air to land lightly in darkness. Even Steve's glow was gone and Bucky's breathing was the only sound.

It was like someone had pressed pause on the world.

"You're going to show me…the dark? I think we could have done that back at my apartment."

"No, I'm not gonna show you the dark." There was fond exasperation in Steve's voice, but under it was something else. Something that made Bucky stand straighter, made him turn towards Steve.

"Then what?"

"There's things I need to say to you before we start."

"You already told me it'd get bad."

"I know." Steve's hand was warm in his, solid and real, for all that he was supposed to be a ghost. "What they had in mind for you, what they called us up for, it was damn stupid, Buck. So we came up with a plan of our own. But if you don't want to go through with it, if you want out, say the word and we're done."

"I will, Steve. Now will you tell me where we're going?"

Steve gently squeezed Bucky's hand. "You know how some things you can't be told? Some things you can only believe if you see 'em for yourself?"

Bucky didn't answer. He wasn't sure it'd really been a question.

Eventually Steve said, "That's where we're going."

The darkness faded, became a dimly lit cavernous room, and Steve once more began to glow, bathing them in a pool of golden light. It was a lone spot of warmth, surrounded as they were by concrete floors that were cool under his sock-clad feet—Bucky spared a moment to wish he'd grabbed his boots—and concrete walls, but they weren't alone. Soldiers in uniform, all well-armed, and technicians and scientists, in ubiquitous white coats and conspicuous lack of weapons, moved efficiently around the huge, open space.

He glanced at Steve. "Remember," Steve told him, eyes serious, grip tight. "Say the word and we're done."

Memories slowly began to bubble to the surface, drawn more by the smell of the place than what it looked like; not surprising, given he'd never seen it from the...outside like this. Maybe they weren't _memories_ , precisely, these things that were rising from the depths, carried on the scent of ozone and leather and iron, because memories lived in your mind. Whatever these were, he could feel them in blood and bone and muscle. The plates on his left arm shifted, whined, and his metal fingers clenched.

A gentle hand ran down his right arm. He breathed in, out. Did it again. Steve stroked his arm and said, "Bucky," in a quiet voice that settled into his core.

Steve wouldn't have brought him here without a reason.

_Some things you have to see for yourself._

"I'm okay," he told Steve, and it was almost entirely not a lie.

In one corner of the huge room was a small, sparsely decorated fir tree, a splash of colour and life standing in stark contrast to the otherwise utilitarian bleakness. In the room's centre, partially caged by metal railings, was a long, lean chair: black leather and metal, fitted with restraints, complex equipment hanging above it.

Bucky knew that chair. He knew it intimately, and he waited for terror to swamp him. For memories to overwhelm him.

They never came.

He felt strangely distant as he stood staring at it, Steve holding tight to his hand.

Steve pressed closer and Bucky felt his bony hip dig into his thigh. "Is that all?"

"No," Steve replied.

Bucky nodded, but before he could speak, if he'd been going to and he wasn't sure about that, the air shimmered, a glow filling the air in front of him, and his younger self popped into existence.

"Am I too late?" his younger self asked and Steve sighed in relief.

"You're _late_ ," Steve replied. "But since I wasn't sure you'd be able to get here at all, I don't think there's any _too_ about it."

"Good." His younger self took up position on his left, shoulder pressed against his metal arm, hip pressed against his thigh, and gave Bucky a serious look. "Didn't want you going through this on your own."

Steve huffed in annoyance at _on your own_ and the younger version of Bucky rolled his eyes and reached around Bucky to poke Steve, saying, "You know what I mean."

"Are you supposed to be here?" Bucky asked him, buoyed by having his younger self on his left, by having the matching version of Steve on his right. Maybe he was fooling himself, but standing here, staring down at the thing from his nightmares, he wasn't afraid. This was the past. He knew, maybe better than anyone, that the past was a tripwire waiting to blow _now_ up in your face, but it was hard to imagine that here, in this company, anything could hurt him.

And, whatever Steve showed him, he'd already lived it. He'd already survived.

His younger self snorted and Steve said, "I think we're well past _supposed to_ at this point."

"Guess they didn't know what they were dealing with when they picked you," Bucky told him and Steve's eyes gleamed.

The great steel doors slammed open and two soldiers appeared, dragging a man between them. Not leading, not propping him up while he stumbled along on his own feet, but _dragging_ , his feet scraping across the concrete.

It wasn't just a man. It was _him_. A sudden need to _laugh_ grabbed Bucky by the throat, because it brought the grand total of Buckys in the room to three, and honestly, that had to be more Buckys than anyone needed.

A small chuckle escaped before he could stop it and Steve and his younger self glanced up at him, near identical looks of confusion and concern.

"Too many Buckys," he explained.

It drew tiny smiles from both of them, which was good, because there was no point in either of them getting all worked up. All of this had already happened. Nothing anyone could do would undo it.

He told them so and they stared at him, then each other, then back at him, all of which meant they missed the soldiers strapping the man into the black leather chair—which, in the grand scheme of everyone's peace of mind, was probably just as well.

His younger self leaned hard into his side and Bucky looked down at him. He was so young. Bucky knew he _wasn't_ just his younger self. Whatever part of Bucky he'd been pulled from, he'd brought the whole of himself with him, but still. He was so damn young.

"You shouldn't have to watch this," Bucky told him, but his younger self replied, "I lived it. Who do you think they were trying to keep down?"

He didn't know what to say to that. He wasn't sure there was anything he could say, so he simply held out his metal hand in silent offer and when his younger self took it, carefully gripped his hand.

Maybe it was some gift of the Ghost of Christmas Past, maybe it was the presence of Steve and his younger self, who were bracketing him closely, holding tight to his hands, but as Bucky watched the past play itself out before him—restraints locked, electricity arcing, animal screams of pain echoing through the cavernous space and no one reacted, no one cared—he didn't turn away. He could face this.

He needed to face this. There was no one else to bear witness. No one else to see the fear in his eyes, to see his confusion, his helplessness.

Horror swamped him at what was being done to the man in the chair. Horror and pity and there was nothing he could do to stop it. All he could do was watch. Maybe he couldn't have without Steve to hold tight to. Maybe he couldn't have without the weight of his younger self pressed hard against his side, holding his metal hand. Maybe he couldn't have if he'd been alone. 

But he wasn't alone. He wasn't alone and he could ache for the man in the chair. Ache for his helplessness, for his agony, for his fear as, pained and trapped, the soldier with the red book came closer.

Steve tucked Bucky's forehead against his shoulder when the soldier began to read. "None of this is real," he murmured. "The words don't work here. They can't affect you."

He nodded, but didn't lift his head until the words stopped. When he did, the man in the chair had changed. The hopelessness, the agony, the fear—all of it was gone. In its place was calm focus, a man certain of his place, alert and secure, patiently waiting.

Bucky's gaze sharpened and he gently freed his hands, wiping his eyes—and when had he wept? But he must have, his eyes were wet—as he walked closer, past soldiers and technicians and scientists who didn't know he was there.

Behind him, Steve and his younger self exchanged a glance and stayed where they were.

Bucky circled the man in the chair as the soldier with the book spoke, giving orders, assigning a mission, and the man in the chair listened attentively, responded.

There was no sign of who he'd been before, no sign of pain, or confusion, or helplessness.

"He's not us."

Bucky turned his head to look at his younger self, since he was the one who'd spoken.

"It's not, he's not us. He's not you. The things he did, it wasn't us."

"It was my body," he replied, but he searched the eyes of the man in the chair and found nothing of who he'd been before. There was only blank obedience, and what almost looked like eagerness to comply.

"But it's not you," Steve said. "They had to get rid of you. That's what I brought you here to see. The only way they could use you was to get rid of _you_. Get rid of _Bucky_ , because you were always in there." Steve moved to stand in front of him, between him and the chair, and rested a hand on his chest. "You lived it, but you never _saw_ it. Not from the outside. You needed to see it."

"Some things you have to see for yourself," he murmured.

"Yeah."

He stared at the floor, then glanced up at Steve. "Can I be done seeing it now?"

"Of course." Steve caught his right hand, his younger self tucked his fingers into his metal elbow, and the world faded into light and warmth. It was formless, shapeless, shaded pink and gold, like being inside a child's idea of a cloud.

"Where are we?"

"I'm not sure. I think it's kind of like a waiting room for this whole thing." Steve shrugged. "But its peaceful. I thought you might like it after...that."

"Am I supposed to be here?"

"Like Steve said, we're a bit past supposed to," his younger self said.  

"Do you want me to take you home?" Steve asked.

He could say yes or he could trust Steve. He could trust that this had a point. He could trust. "You've got more to show me?"

Steve nodded.

"Then show me."

Steve exchanged a glance with Bucky's younger self, a complicated thing involving eyebrows and headshakes and widening eyes, and then Steve nodded.

The calm silence faded and a slow metronome beep filled the air, high-pitched and electronic. Bucky frowned, canting his head, trying to track where the sound was coming from, and the warm light slowly dimmed, turning pale and cold as it glowed down on them from a caged bulb set in a high ceiling.

It was a rectangular concrete room with a heavy steel door. Computers sat along one wall and distinctive smells filled the air: metal and bleach and old iron. Rust. Copper. Once more it was the scent of the place that reached down and dragged up old knowledge, sent old memories sizzling through marrow and vein.

He knew what the room held.

He turned and there it was: a huge glass-fronted chamber, round and imposing, it crouched at the end of the room like a great beast, half-hidden in shadow.

Bucky studied it from a distance, then squeezed Steve's hand and slowly started walking closer, approaching obliquely, like it was a dog that might bite. His younger self paced them, he could feel them both watching him, but he didn't take his eyes off the chamber.

As they got closer Steve's glow chased away the shadows, casting the figure inside in shades of gold. Bucky pressed his metal hand against the glass, half-expecting him to wake up and do the same. To meet him, finger to finger and palm to palm.

Because, of course, the figure...the man, frozen inside the chamber, was him. Just like it had been him in the chair. This was where they'd dragged him from, and it was where they'd drag him to when the mission was done.

Bucky studied him, studied himself. Even here he was masked and he didn't know if it was part of the cryofreeze or if they hadn't bothered to take the mask off before shoving him inside.

A sharp spike of the same horror, the same _ache_ , from before stabbed through him and he rested his forehead on the glass. "This is where they kept me, this is where they froze me, when they were done."

"They had to." His younger self ran a hand down the glass. "If they left you out, I'd start coming back." Bucky turned his head to meet the fierce gaze of his younger self. "Because that's what you _have_ to remember. You never stopped fighting. You never stopped holding on. They pushed you down so deep you could barely find your way out again, but even when there was almost nothing left of us, you never stopped. You had enough left to remember him," he thrust a thumb at Steve, "to know you knew him, and they had to wipe that, too."

It tickled a vague memory, but it was buried under the cascade of _remembering Steve._ Of the moment on the Helicarrier when everything had broken and he'd woken into hell. "I don't remember."

"They made sure of that. They had to. You were too dangerous. Look what happened when you came back. You broke through everything. This, this here?" Steve rested a hand on the front of the chamber, gently, like it was a scared animal. "This, all of this, all of that with the chair, everything they did, was about getting rid of _you_. Because _you_ , Bucky, you would never do what they wanted. But you hung on. You survived. You kept fighting."

Steve's conviction, Steve's faith, slammed into him and he swallowed hard. He stared through the glass, searching for something familiar, trying to find some sign of...he wasn't even sure who he was looking for. Who would he have been? Who was he now? He looked...afraid. Even frozen he looked afraid.

Bucky suddenly couldn't breathe, he hurt so much for him.

The computers kept beeping, monitoring the chamber, ensuring their charge stayed frozen, preserved in a moment in time. Going neither forward nor back, but simply existing.

Bucky stared at the floor as thoughts he couldn't quite grasp slithered through his mind like slippery fish. They were echoes of Steve's words, echoes of his younger self's, all washed through with a heart-deep, bone-deep ache for the man in the chamber. Neither Steve nor his younger self disturbed his contemplation, but he could feel their gaze like a comforting weight. It told him he wasn't alone. It had been a long time since he hadn't been alone.

Eventually he stirred. He didn't speak, but he did meet both their eyes in turn, offering a short nod and a lift of his lips that wasn't quite a smile, but then again, it wasn't not.

"Let's get out of here," Steve said.  

"Are we going to the next one?" the younger Bucky asked.

"No," Steve said, the finality of it apparent in the line of his body, shoulders back, feet wide. "I've got somewhere better in mind."

They exchanged a complicated look and then the younger Bucky grinned. "In that case, I'll leave you to it." He rested his hand on Bucky's chest—and Bucky wasn't sure how he'd gone from no one touching him at all, something he took great pains to ensure, to this, but he was finding he didn't hate it. "This might be goodbye, it might not. But don't forget this. Don't forget we never stopped fightin'. Don't forget what they had to do to turn us into something they could use."

"I won't." He paused, weighed it up, then decided it was _him;_ a little teasing was just fine, and it struck him as the next thing to miraculous that he _wanted to_ , that he _could_ , standing here in this house of horrors, in this place of nightmares. "Course I don't have the best track record with remembering stuff..."  

Steve snorted, his younger self shook his head sadly, then Bucky found himself being hugged. His younger self was also his _smaller_ self and his arms didn't reach all the way around, but he squeezed him hard and Bucky found himself returning it, holding on as tight as he could and fighting back tears.

With a pat on his chest, his younger self stepped back and stepped back again and stepped away into nothing and was gone.

Steve's hand slid into his. "Time to go," he said, and they walked forward onto a snowy path under a darkening sky, surrounded by trees and the smell of new snow and the city. In the distance he could hear the sound of children singing. Snow crunched under his sock-clad feet but it wasn't cold or wet.

The people around them, bundled up against the chill and walking faster than their slow stroll, didn't seem to notice them, but they also didn't walk into them, as if they instinctively knew to avoid that part of the path.

"What are you going to show me now?"

"Nothing bad. I'm the Ghost of Christmas Past, so this is the past, but I'm done with _that_." He balled the hand not firmly holding Bucky's into a fist. "I've done my bit, traumatised the hell out of you, and—"

"No."

"What?"

"No." Bucky drew them to a stop and frowned down at the snow, swept it into a pile with the edge of his sock-clad foot, before lifting his head. "You didn't. Traumatise me," he clarified, and he realised with a sense of surprise that it was true. He was settled. Calm.  

"You don't gotta lie to spare my feelings."

"Think pretty highly of yourself there, don't you?" It was a voice from the long distant past, bubbling out of some deeply buried part of him, and it made Steve start, and stare, and step closer.

"You mean that?"

Bucky nodded, but at the same time he said, "Yeah. I didn't like it much. It wasn't fun, but I'm not traumatised. Not even sure how you'd measure something like that after," he held up his metal hand, the reflection of a nearby tree's coloured lights giving it a distinctly festive look, "everything."

"I'm glad to hear it." Steve cocked his head, those too-blue eyes fixed on him. "How _do_ you feel?"

"Not sure." He looked away, taking in their surroundings. The path was lined with snow-piled trees and, here and there, obviously placed for maximum effect, were Christmas trees, wrapped in coloured lights, and the combination cast weird shadows. In the distance a massive Christmas tree rose high above the ground, dwarfing the ones nearby, and it was covered in red, white, and blue lights, along with purple and green. "Still figuring it out," he added, glancing back at Steve.

Steve looked like he wanted to say something, but instead he nodded and squeezed Bucky's hand. They resumed walking, joining the throng heading for the enormous tree. It was the source of the singing, or rather the hundreds of children arranged around its base were. Although, given the strangeness of the current situation, if the tree itself had actually been singing? Bucky wouldn't have batted an eye.

The way the crowd was dressed, the suits, the dresses, almost no one without a hat, told Bucky they were more than a few decades back, but it wasn't enough to narrow it down exactly. He glanced at Steve, hoping for a clue, but Steve just smiled and led them through the crowds. As if they'd been waiting for their arrival, the children's chorus burst into a new song. Not a Christmas carol, which was what he'd been expecting, at least it didn't sound like any carol he'd ever heard. He listened for a bit, then broke into a grin as the children sang:

_America! America! God shed His grace on thee  
And crown thy good with brotherhood, From sea to shining sea!_

"Hey, listen to that. They've got a song just for you."

Steve sighed. "Technically _not_ me. Not yet. I'm not the one dragging a shield around, I'm from way before that."

" _Technically_ , maybe, but I know enough to know you're always Steve, no matter what. Even here, when you're playing Ghost of Christmas Past."

Steve's eyes went soft and he tugged on Bucky's hand, drawing him closer to the front of the crowd while the song went on. "Figured out where we are yet?"

"Should I have?"

Steve didn't answer and Bucky followed him until he stopped and pointed. "Look." Bucky looked, trying to figure out what he was pointing _at_ , and then he saw them.

At first he could only stare, because they were so small, so young, grinning fit to split their faces as they watched the tree, as they listened to the carollers. "You're so _tiny_. How old are you? Six? Seven?"

"Hey, I was _eight_ ," Steve grumbled. "Just 'cause you'd hit a growth spurt."

He remembered. He _remembered_. He'd shot up a good two inches and his Ma had bought him a winter coat that was two size too big, so he could grow into it. "Good thing, too, or there wouldn't have been room in my coat for both of us."

Because there they were, the two of them, Steve and Bucky, right up the front. Steve had been freezing, his coat not enough to keep him warm in the chill of an unexpected snowfall when there was never any meat on his bones. It had been second nature for Bucky to shove him in the front of his jacket and button it up around him, Steve small enough for Bucky to rest his chin on his head while he waited for Steve to stop shivering.

"Fifty foot tree," Steve said. "And something like a thousand electric lights. Biggest one they'd ever had in the park. You could see it from the street before you even got here. Felt like everyone came down on Christmas Eve to see it."

"Including us."

"Including us," Steve agreed. "I had to just about beg my Ma to let me go. She only agreed because you promised you wouldn't leave me on my own."

"As if I would. No telling what kind of trouble you'd get yourself into." He grinned down at Steve, and Steve grinned back at him and for one moment it was as if no time had passed at all, like they were their original selves, bundled up in Bucky's coat. Steve leaned into his side and Bucky draped his arm around Steve's shoulders, and they listened to the carols as snow began to fall.

Eventually Steve stirred and let out a quiet sigh. "Time's running out." Steve glanced up into the sky, at what Bucky wasn't sure, then gave him a crooked smile. "I'd better get you back."

Sudden exhaustion flowed through Bucky, as if the weight of everything he'd seen had abruptly decided to climb on his shoulders. Steve took his hand and it was a lifeline as the world around them faded away, resolving into Bucky's apartment. Steve gave him a little shove and he stumbled to fall onto his mattress.

Steve settled next to him, glowing with an inner fire, bright against the darkness, and he forced his eyes to stay open. "You never stopped fighting. I was gonna show you another time they did that to you, but you're smart. You've always been smart. Smarter than people gave you credit for. You don't need to see that more than once to know they had to rewrite you to make you do what they wanted, and you were still fighting them."

"I learned that from you."

"No, Bucky, you didn't. Or if you did, we learned it from each other. It never went only one way. Anything you learned from me," Steve pressed a kiss to his forehead and Bucky's eyes fluttered shut, "you taught me just as much."

A snake was twisting inside him, worming its way out from his deepest core, a visceral understanding of how far they'd had to go to make him into their Soldier, and he'd _fought_ , even if it'd only been by hanging on to who he was. From anyone else, he might have doubted, but not from Steve. Not when Steve had shown it to him, had let him see it with his own eyes.

Maybe his memory was fractured and patched and couldn't always be trusted, but now he'd seen it. He'd seen what they'd had to do to make him their weapon and that weapon, that hadn't been him.

Steve's hand was a warm, comforting weight, resting on his head, and Bucky gave a small sigh and slipped into dreamless sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find the [art from this chapter here](http://artgroves.tumblr.com/post/168872713839/steves-hand-was-a-warm-comforting-weight), along with other art you might enjoy!


	4. Bridge: The Bureau of Christmas Spirit

As a rule the BCS didn't monitor individual Scroogings, but he'd never had three of the four spirits show up and read him the Riot Act. It had been incredibly irritating, and he would have preferred having nothing further to do with them, but he'd had a feeling there might be trouble.

He'd been right. The Christmas Past scenario wasn't anything close to what it was supposed to be. None of the Ghost's past events had come from the approved list—and the list was right there in the file; he'd checked.

What he should have done was shut it down. Immediately. He'd been right on the verge of doing so, but something made him hesitate. Made him sit back to watch and wait. 

He just about fell off his chair when the Marley popped up, because cross-contamination was _not_ permitted.

What he should have done was flick him right back out again and file an Anomalous Manifestation report. Again, what he did was...nothing. What was happening was different, in a world where nothing was different, and somehow he found himself letting it run.

 _Honestly_ , he told himself, _I don't want to deal with the paperwork_.

Scroogings weren't always successful. Sometimes they made things worse. Sometimes they made things _much_ worse, but the BCS worked on volume; since only a small percentage ever failed, not enough to impact the TGCS, the failures weren't a relevant consideration.

As he watched the fierce little Ghost of Christmas Past and the Marley stomp all over the rules, he found himself, much to his surprise, hoping this wouldn't be one of the failures.


	5. Stave III: The Second of the Three Spirits

The clang of bells dragged Bucky from sleep and he could still feel the ghost of Steve's kiss on his skin.

As he lay there, listening to the bells, he wondered if maybe it'd all been a dream. The scent of holly filling the apartment from the sprig Steve had thrown away, the settled, calm feeling filling his bones, they told him it hadn't been.

It had been real. It had happened.

The bells kept ringing, counting out twelve, and he stumbled to his feet to look out the window at the dark and silent city. He must have slept all day and into the night and he'd be concerned, except the amount of sleep he usually _didn't_ get combined with how peaceful it had been... His body must have craved sleep. It made it hard to worry, especially when he factored in the whole _ghost_ thing.  

There'd be another one along soon. He grabbed his boots and sat on the couch to pull them on, then waited. The hour ticked past and the distant church bells, if it was a church, if the bells weren't some ancient memory long since knocked down, rang once.

No ghost appeared. He frowned.

Bucky looked around, as if a ghost might be hiding somewhere in the shadows of his tiny apartment, and saw a light gleaming under the door to the hallway. It wasn't a normal light, too warm, too bright, too welcoming.

Apparently this ghost he had to go and meet. He was glad he'd put his boots on.

A blaze of light blinded him as he opened the door and he lifted his metal hand to shade his eyes.

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Present," said the spirit. "Look upon me."

The light dimmed enough so Bucky could actually see who'd spoken. Standing, no, leaning slightly against the railing, was a tall woman with deep chestnut hair falling free around her shoulders, swept back from her face with a clip shaped like a cornucopia. Her head was tilted slightly as she watched him, but her eyes were clear and kind. Her green dress was cut low at the neck, left her arms bare, and flared around her knees. A brooch in the shape of an empty scabbard was pinned over her left breast and on her head she wore a holly wreath. Bucky couldn't help staring at it.

"Apologies, but I grew up reading the book every year at Christmas." She touched the wreath on her head. "I couldn’t resist."

He knew her. He knew who she was. "Agent Carter."

"I think, given the circumstances, Peggy's fine."

"What are you doing here?"

"Ghost of Christmas Present, like I said. But I believe what you actually meant was: why me. Yes?"

He nodded.

"I volunteered. The ghost of who I used to be already has a tendency to wander," there was a deep and unfathomable sorrow in her eyes that he didn't understand, but she smiled and went on, "and I wanted to help."

He remembered _her_ , there was something unforgettable about her, wound around and through his war-time memories of Steve, the ones he'd reclaimed and the ones he'd relearned, because she was as much a part of history as Captain America, even if he'd had to dig harder to find it.

Seeing her standing there, in her green dress, bright and gleaming, her eyes sharp, a memory of an emotion drifted to the surface: jealousy or envy, he wasn't sure which, but it was only a memory, the emotion itself nowhere to be found. "You wanted to help _me_?"

She nodded once, brisk and firm. "I did. I do."

"Did Steve put you up to it?"

"Amazingly enough, I'm capable of deciding things all on my own." Her quick smile took the sting out it. "The BCS calling went out and I answered."

"BCS?"

"Bureau of Christmas Spirit. The organisation responsible for all of," she wrinkled her nose, "this. But none of that matters." She pushed off the railing and held out her hand. "I'm aware this is asking a great deal of you, but I need you to trust me and take my hand." Her smile flashed, filled with gentle humour and mischief. "Asking you to hang onto my dress, however traditional, would be awkward for both of us."

Bucky stared at her hand. She wasn't Steve and she wasn't himself, no matter how strange a thought that would be in any other situation, and he was reluctant to take it. Trust was not a thing that came easily to him. Trust was not a thing that really came at all.

But these weren't normal circumstances. "What do you mean, a calling went out and you answered?"

"It's magic and metaphysics and even I don't really understand it, but I became aware of an," she cocked her head, "an invitation is probably the best way to think of it. To assist in this endeavour. I responded immediately, because I wanted to help if I could."

"Why?"

"For a great many complicated reasons, but at the heart of it all," she gazed at him and her eyes were hopeful and sad and fierce all at once, "I wish you nothing but good things."

It resonated through him like a truth and tension he'd barely been aware of eased. He couldn't resist asking, lips curling in a smile just this side of teasing, "Not because you couldn't pass up a chance at being the Ghost of Christmas Present?"

"Well," she replied, smoothing her hands down her immaculate dress, "perhaps a touch."

No, trust was not a thing that really came at all, but he could make a choice. Bucky offered her his hand. His right hand, not sure if the strength of his metal fingers could hurt a ghost, not willing to risk it. "I asked you to come dancing once, didn't I?"

"You did," she replied, slipping her hand into his.

"And you turned me down."

"I don't believe I ever gave _you_ an answer." The smile she graced him with must have been part of her being a spirit, because it flowed through him like a flame, filling him with warmth, like the aftermath of a good meal, leaving him feeling sated and sleepy. "Now, I warn you, I'm taking a bit of a loose approach to _present_ , but I believe Steve told you we've devised our own way of dealing with this endeavour?"

"Yeah, he did."

"Excellent."

With that, the hallway disappeared, the railing and the stairs and the peeling wallpaper vanishing, and they were standing in a gravel driveway facing a storybook farmhouse. Snow covered the fields and mixed with the gravel under their feet, was piled along the wooden fences, made hats on the fence posts, and swaddled the farmhouse in a protective blanket. A, errant breeze swirled flurries of sleet through the air, but it parted around them, leaving them untouched.

Instantly, his sleepiness vanished. "Where are we?"

"The precise location's a secret I won't give away, but it doesn’t matter. Where isn't as important as who."

She led him inside, up the stairs and through the closed front door. Inside, the house was warm and lived in, a comfortable mess marking the place as a _home_. A Christmas tree in the corner, decorated with more enthusiasm than artistry, clumps of tinsel creating patches of glittering excitement among the lights and coloured balls, stretched to the ceiling and under its branches were piles of gifts.

On the over-stuffed, faded couch a woman, pregnant and sleepy-looking, had her feet up, and in front of the tree, lying on their stomachs, eyes glued to the presents, were an older boy and a younger girl. A fire roared in the fireplace, the scent of cinnamon and sugar filled the air, and Christmas carols played quietly in the background.

It was a Rockwell painting come to life. 

Bucky stood quietly, letting it all wash over him, then shook his head. "This was always Steve's dream. Not mine."

"Steve had many dreams," Peggy said quietly. "Some of them are still attainable. But that's not why we're here. We're here for him."

She pointed at an incredibly average looking man with sandy-blond hair, well-muscled but nothing extraordinary, sleepy-eyed and yawning as he walked out of the kitchen, a mug gripped in one hand. He was greeted with a cheer from the kids. "Okay, okay, I'm here. You know I need coffee before I do anything, and that includes Christmas."

He grinned, dropped a kiss on the woman's head, then slumped to sit next to her on the couch. "Laura, honey, any word from Nat?"

"She just texted, she's running late."

"Tell her if she's not here soon, I'm keeping her presents."

"I think you can tell her that yourself."

The kids in front of the tree giggled. The boy sent a pleading look over his shoulder. "Come on, just one?"

"You have to wait for your Auntie Nat," the man replied.

"Ugh, fine." He poked a present gently, then another, and his sister joined in.

"Explain why I'm here?" Bucky said.

"Because I wanted you to see this."

"A family Christmas?"

" _His_ family Christmas."

Bucky studied the unremarkable man as he smiled at his family, as he sipped his coffee, as he leaned over and whispered something in the woman's ear that made her laugh. It was a classic picture of family warmth and togetherness, but Bucky still didn't understand and he cast a look at Peggy that made that clear. 

"You don't know who he is."

"Should I?"

"I wasn't certain. What you know and what you don't, well, I wasn't sure."

"You should try it from the inside," he said lightly, and it could have been harsh, it could have been dark, but it was none of those things.

She laughed, a quick, bright thing, and nodded at the man on the couch. "That's Hawkeye."

Instantly his lightness flicked out, as cleanly as a flipped switch. He went stiff and tried to pull his hand away, but she held on—gently, it would've been nothing to break her grip, but he didn't want to fight her. Truth was, until that moment he'd forgotten he was still holding her hand.

"You do know who he is."

He did. Hawkeye was an Avenger. The time he'd spent studying Steve, trying to reconstruct his history, it'd been inevitable he'd learn about the other Avengers. And maybe he might have put a little extra effort into learning about the people who were supposed to have Steve's back.

He knew about Hawkeye. Knew about what had happened to him. Mind-controlled and taken, forced to kill, not just strangers but his own people—and for someone like Hawkeye he wasn't sure which would have been worse.

Bucky wasn't trying to pull his hand away anymore. No, now he was holding on tight.

"He seems so…" Words eluded him. _Peaceful_ , maybe. Calm. Secure. Safe.

"He does, doesn't he?" They watched Hawkeye take a sip of coffee, dribble it all down his front, and make a face. "I'm sure it's not that simple, nothing ever could be after that, but it doesn't mean he has to live in that moment forever."

His voice was very quiet when he said, "It was decades. I don't know how many." 

"Yes."

"They—" The words caught in his throat.

Peggy's voice was soft, winding around him. "They tried to kill you and keep your body intact, because they didn't want you. They just wanted your body, wanted what it could do for them. The person inside it was an inconvenience they kept trying to destroy."

He swallowed hard.

"But you came back from that." She turned to face him. "Look at you. Bucky, you are astonishing. You've made a life for yourself—"

"Not much of a life."

" _You've made a life for yourself_. After everything you've been through, after everything that was done to you, you've taken yourself back. I can't imagine how hard it's been, the strength that must have taken." She squeezed his hand. "But you're allowed to have more than just existing. You said this wasn't your dream. Maybe you don't know what your dream is anymore, but you're allowed to find out. You're allowed to do more than just live."

Her fierceness about knocked Bucky on his ass. Not literally; he wasn't sure anything could knock him over as long as she was hanging onto him, holding him anchored as solidly as Steve and his younger self had done.

Bucky knew what they were doing, Steve and Peggy and his younger self. He wasn't stupid. Steve had taken him to see himself, to see what HYDRA had done to him, to see what they'd had to do to turn him into the Winter Soldier. He'd lived it, but only with the barest awareness of what was happening, who he was pushed down to unreachable depths. Seeing it, seeing for himself, watching himself disappear to be replaced with someone else...

Steve had been right. Some things you had to see for yourself. It was the only way to _know._ And now Peggy, with her _you're allowed to do more than just live_ , bringing him to see Hawkeye.

No, he wasn't stupid. He knew what they were doing.

Thing was, it was working. He could feel things shifting inside him, tectonic plates rearranging themselves, earthquakes shaking the certainty of what he knew. He tilted his head to look at her. "I get what Steve sees in you."

Peggy slowly smiled. "And I what he sees in you."

"What he saw in me, maybe."

"Mmm. Ready to go?"

He nodded and they stepped forward as the front door opened, the sounds of gleefully shrieking children leaping up and throwing themselves at the door fading away.

They stepped out into a coffee shop. It was big, its huge glass windows looking out over a busy city street, and garishly decorated in Christmas Explosion: trees, lights, tinsel, frosted snowflakes on the windows. It was also overcrowded, packed with people loaded down with Christmas shrapnel, bright shiny bags and parcels and boxes, all desperate for caffeine, judging by the way they crowded the counter, jostling for position.

The faces of the young people serving coffee with machine-like precision suggested that, right now, they'd welcome an actual explosion if only it would free them from the torments of the season and the demands of the customers, which one could be forgiven for mistaking for the shrill cries of the damned.

Bucky took it all in, frowned in confusion, and asked, "Wait. Wasn't it Christmas _Day_ a minute ago? Why are all these people here, looking like this on Christmas Day?"

"I warned you I'd be taking a loose approach to _present_. This is the day of Christmas Eve, hence the last minute shopping and wide-spread panic, and this is New York City, hence all the," her waved hand took in the entire shop, " _this_. We were in a different time zone previously, so I bent things a tiny bit." Her grin was the essence of mischief. "Perhaps more than a tiny bit, but the BCS handed me all these lovely powers and sent me off unsupervised, so they really have no one to blame but themselves." She drew Bucky forward, unhindered by the crowd. "Come on."

In the very back corner, perched on too-small stools and tucked in close to a table entirely too tiny for two large men, were Steve and Sam.

The incessant noise faded away. Bucky dropped Peggy's hand. He registered Sam's presence—Samuel Wilson, whose name he'd learned in the aftermath coverage, and it carried its own weight, its own memories—but didn't take much notice of him. Right now, he didn't take all that much notice of anything but Steve.

Steve, who didn't know he was there. Steve, who was laughing at something Sam had said, his blue eyes bright, lips curving in an uncomplicated smile.

He didn't know this Steve, except he did, in the most basic way, because all Steves were Steve, at their core, at their heart, but he didn't _know_ this one. This one was new and unfamiliar...but he wasn't. The way he held himself, the way he tilted his head, his laughter, the movement of his hands—they were the same. Big or small, they were the same.

He wanted to reach out and touch his face, smooth a thumb across his cheek, around the orbit of his eye, to reassure himself that it was whole and smooth and unbroken, even though he knew it was, he could see it was, but it was gut-deep need, sudden and sharp and painful. His hand was rising, he was stepping closer, but he forced it down, forced himself to stop.

Peggy's eyes were sympathetic and Bucky shook his head, and they stood listening as Sam peered under the table at the large number of bags attempting to tumble past the cage of Steve's legs and escape. "How much stuff did you _buy_?"

"Not much. Not that much, anyway. I wanted to get something for everyone, and then I wasn't sure if your sister was going to be there, and if she comes, there's the kids, and..." Steve trailed off, looking sheepish.

"You know this would go a lot easier if you just came _with_ me and helped me carry it all."

"Not this year, Sam. I'm just not feeling it, you know?"

It had the cadence of a conversation long since settled, and Sam nodded his acceptance. "I know, but we will be Skyping you, or whatever fancy holographic version Stark's shoved on our phones this time, because my mom will never forgive me if I don't, and everyone's going to want to say thank you for the stupid amount of gifts."

"That'd be great. You know I love your family."

"And they love you. I mean, _why_ they do, I don't know." Sam grinned and Steve kicked him lightly under the table.

"And you wonder why I'm not coming with you for Christmas."

"Your loss. I mean ask anyone." Sam waited until Steve had a mouthful of coffee, then said, sweet as syrup, batting his eyelashes, "I am a Christmas _delight_."

Steve snorted, barely stopping coffee from coming out of his nose, and glared at Sam. "You did that on purpose."

"Me?"

"You."

"Well I'm going be hauling the contents of what looks like an entire mall home with me. Let me have my fun."

"That's fair."

They sipped their coffee in companionable silence, or what would have been silence if not for the tinny, invasive Christmas music and the muttering of the other coffee goers, and the associated noises of a packed coffee shop on the day before Christmas.

After a minute, Sam said, "I'm gonna get serious with you for a minute and then I'm gonna let it go. Okay?"

"Can I say no?"

"You can. If you don't mind seeing your very own patented disappointed face. I've been practicing it in the mirror and at this point, I'm pretty sure I'm better at it than you are."

"See, now I'm tempted to say no, just so I can see it." Sam leaned forward, expression at the ready, and Steve held up his hands. "Okay, I give, I give. Lay it on me."

"Okay." Sam sipped his coffee, then set his mug down and folded his hands on the table, holding Steve's eyes. "You realise we might never find him, right? The leads we had are going cold and the more time passes the less likely it gets."

Guilt passed over Steve's face. "God, Sam. I'm sorry. You don't have to keep looking for him. I never—"

"Uh uh, hold up. Don't go putting words in my mouth, because that's not what I'm saying. I don't mind looking for him. Hell, I'm happy to look for him. After what we found out, he deserves to be looked for. But the time's gonna come when you'll have to make a choice. Now, we're not there yet, there's still leads to follow when Christmas is done, but if they don't go anywhere... Steve? That time _is_ gonna come."

"I know, Sam. I know. It's just. It's _Bucky_."

"I know. And that's my minute, so I'm done." He squeezed Steve's arm and Steve smiled crookedly back. "Now, tell me what sort of pie you want. Because there's no way my mom's letting me come back without bringing you a pie. And you can't say apple," Sam quickly added.

"Is it my fault I actually like apple pie?"

"Since I'm sure you cultivated that preference for the sole purpose of messing with people? Yes, it's one hundred percent your fault."

Peggy drew Bucky away, through the crowded coffee shop, past the baristas with the murderous eyes and the tinsel smiles, and out onto the sidewalk.

"He's looking for me," Bucky said.

"Did you think he wouldn't?"

Bucky hadn't let himself think about it. He'd been hyper-aware of the possibility of pursuit in the immediate aftermath, but he'd carefully never wondered. He'd taken every step he knew to cover his tracks. Going to the museum had been foolishness of the highest order, but he'd had to _know_ , he'd had to _see_. After that, he'd taken no risks. His greatest fear was remnants of HYDRA, offshoots or compatriots, people who'd try and claim him as a weapon.

Hiding from Steve...that was a by-product.

"He believes in you. He wants to find you, as does Sam. Sam's been the doing the bulk of the searching, since it's hard for Captain America to disappear for parts unknown."

"Because Steve wants him to."

"James Buchanan Barnes," Peggy snapped out like a Drill Sergeant and Bucky's spine stiffened in automatic response. "You do both Steve and Samuel a grave disservice if you believe that. Firstly, do you really believe Steve would take advantage of someone's friendship like that? He wouldn't, not even for you. Secondly, Samuel is a man of integrity and honour. There's no denying part of why he searches is for Steve, because he knows what this means to him. But Samuel searches for you because, like Steve, he knows what was done to you and believes you deserve a chance." The look she gave him was drier than dust. "Or weren't you listening in there?"

Bucky licked his lips, and because he both believed her and didn't know how to deal with any of that, he said, "That's not really me anymore."

Peggy raised an eyebrow.

"James Buchanan Barnes."

"No, but snapping out _Bucky_ doesn't have quite the same ring to it."

He looked up at the sky. "Not sure I'm exactly him either."

"You don't need to be." He glanced at her. "You don't need to be anyone but who you are now, whoever that might turn out to be."

Her words flowed down his spine, warm and soft. "I can't believe Sam's looking for me. I threw him off a Helicarrier."

"Well, that wasn't _you_ , which you know and so does he." She paused. "Although that's no guarantee he won't hold a grudge."

Bucky nudged at a crack in the sidewalk with his boot, and a tiny smile crept across his face. He tilted his head to look at Peggy and she reached for his hand. He let her take it, slipping his fingers through hers.

"Come now, it's time to go."

"Can we go back in, just for a few more minutes?"

"To see Steve?"

He looked away and poked the sidewalk with his boot again.

"We need to leave, but..." She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. "All right, yes. Come on. One last glimpse before I take you home."

They stepped off the sidewalk and into a living room with golden floorboards and exposed brick walls. A deep, over-sized couch held pride of place in front of a fireplace filled with crackling flames, a fluffy white rug on the floor between them, and bookshelves lined one wall. Next to the window was a skinny Christmas tree, half-heartedly decorated, as if it had been put up because it was expected, not from any particular desire to have a Christmas tree.

Sitting on the couch, staring at his phone, was Steve. The sky outside the window was pitch black, so Bucky knew it was late. "It's still Christmas Eve," Peggy said. "Sam's just texted to say he's arrived safely."

Steve was smiling faintly as his fingers moved across the touchscreen, then he tossed the phone onto the couch next to him. He stared blankly up at the ceiling, hands folded across his stomach, for a long time, then stood and walked over to stand in front of the fire. Another few minutes passed while he stared into the flames, then he moved to a small table, tucked away in a corner. It held a pad of paper, a pen neatly lined up next to it, and a mesh wire cup filled with pencils.

Steve opened the table's single drawer and lifted out a pile of framed photos, setting them with delicate care next to the pad of paper.

"Oh, Steve," Peggy sighed, but she stayed by the door, leaving Bucky free to wander closer. Which he did, slowly, to stand at Steve's shoulder.

One by one, Steve picked up the photos. Studied them. Smiled sadly, put them back down. A black and white photo of a woman Bucky knew was Steve's mother. He didn't recognise her, but she had the same look as Steve and her name arrived unbidden from some forgotten place in his mind. A photo of the Howling Commandos, and Bucky recognised himself—hands wrapped around his rifle, his expression hard—and knew the faces of the others, had relearned the names lost to cracks in his memory.

A photo of Peggy in a smart brown uniform, gold buttons gleaming, looking not much different than she did now, and Steve's face fell as he held it, sorrow in his eyes to match what he'd seen in Peggy's. He turned to Peggy, seeking an explanation, but she simply shook her head and motioned him back to Steve.

Steve set Peggy's picture down and pulled a piece of paper out of the drawer. It wasn't framed, wasn't in a folder or a book, was simply a loose piece of thick paper, but when he turned it over there was a sketch on the other side.

It was a sketch of Bucky. Not Bucky as a young man. Not the man in the photo of the Howling Commandos. It was a sketch of him as he was _now_ , or as best Steve had been able to manage.

It grabbed hold of him, that Steve had a picture of him _as he was now,_ tucked away here with all his precious memories _._ Not Bucky from before the war. Not Bucky as he used to be. Steve had tried to capture him _now._ Long hair, weary, and his eyes were haunted, but even with all of that the man in the sketch had grace, had warmth, and Bucky could feel the hope pouring off it.

Steve touched it with a delicate finger, tracing the edge of the paper, and Bucky rubbed his right hand over his face. He wanted, more than anything in the world, to be able to reach out and touch Steve. To say: I'm here. He couldn't, so he settled for moving closer, as close as he could get, in the hopes Steve would somehow know he was there.

 

Peggy was watching the two of them, smiling faintly, when a shimmer in the air appeared and resolved into the slender figure of the Ghost of Christmas Past. Bucky was so focused on Steve he didn't notice.

"Peggy," the newly arrived Steve said breathlessly, and while _breathless_ was a normal state of being for a ghost this breathlessness had a pointed quality.

"Steve," she replied, worry seeping into her voice, because she knew he wouldn’t be here unless something was wrong.

"I found out who the last ghost is."

She straightened from her lean against the doorframe. "I'm assuming from your reaction that it's no one good."

"No. I mean, it's the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, we always knew it wasn't gonna to be _good_ , but it's _bad_."

Suddenly, with no warning, but of course that's what suddenly means, the younger Bucky appeared next to him. "It's worse than that. He'll make it as bad as he can. He—" He pointed at Bucky, who was staring at Steve with quiet longing, a match for the way Steve was staring at his sketch. All three of them went quiet, just watching them, before the younger Bucky shook his head sharply, refocusing their attention on the problem at hand. "I don't know if he's got any defences against him."

"Of course he does," Peggy said. "He has us."

Steve exchanged a glance with the younger Bucky. "We've already pushed the rules pretty far," Steve said innocently, but his eyes were sharp.

"Yeah, I know how much you hate to break 'em," Bucky replied, jostling him. Steve shoved him back and Peggy shook her head.

"So it's agreed?" she asked.

"Yeah. We don't leave him alone. Not for a minute," the younger Bucky said.

"And if _he_ tries anything..." Steve's eyes were hard, dangerous, stripped of their previous mirth, and Peggy and the younger Bucky nodded.


	6. Bridge: The Bureau of Christmas Spirit

He should put a stop to this. He should absolutely put a stop to this. Both ghosts, Christmas Past and Christmas Present, had gone completely off script, there were multiple Anomalous Manifestations, and they'd blatantly stated their intentions to interfere in the Christmas Yet to Come scenario.

He had the power. He was the Commissioner of the BCS; as long as it was Christmas _somewhere_ in the world he had almost unlimited power. He could easily flick all three of them, Past, Present and the Marley, back into the metaphysical concepts from which they'd come.

He should do it.

Immediately.

Yet here he was, hesitating.

He'd finally read the Subject's file. The _whole_ file. Perhaps he'd been a little hard on the staffer who'd tried to raise concerns with it. Discorporating might have been an overreaction, especially since he was starting to think the staffer had a point.

The Subject might be carrying the nascent chains that had flagged him for a Scrooging, but the Marley had been right: they didn't belong to him. They were forged from guilt for actions he'd been helpless not to commit. He might carry them, but they were not his chains.

So no. He wouldn't stop it. He'd allow these spirits, who were waking long-ago memories of a time before files and checklists and the BCS, to play this out until the end.


	7. Stave IV: The Last of the Spirits

A ringing bell dragged Bucky's attention away from Steve. Another ring, and the flames in the fireplace froze mid-flicker.

Another ring and he turned to look for Peggy, but she was gone.

He turned back to Steve and Steve was motionless, not even his chest moving to breathe.

The bells continued to ring as slowly the room faded into darkness. Fog rolled in across a featureless landscape. As the bells tolled twelve a cloaked and hooded figure, invisible beneath the black robe, flowed like mist along the ground towards him.

It approached slowly, stirring apprehension in Bucky's gut, but he held his ground and the cloaked figure stopped.

They stood in silence, regarding each other, and Bucky gradually relaxed. "You're the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?" he finally asked, because he was starting to think if he didn't say something they'd just stand there all night, staring at each other.

The ghost threw off its cloak, letting it puddle on the ground at its feet, and grinned a movie star grin, light from nowhere glinting off perfect white teeth in a perfect jaw. "Oh, I think I'm a bit more than that."

Cold terror smashed into Bucky, sent him stumbling backwards, panic racing through him like beasts before a wildfire, but his legs were frozen and he couldn't run because Alexander Pierce was smiling at him like a shark. His fine blue suit was dirty and torn, blood oozed down his cut cheek, and a spreading bloodstain over his heart marked the place his life had ended. 

" _Bucky_ , is it? That doesn't feel right." Pierce shook his head, the picture of avuncular disappointment. "I think I'll call you the Asset. We've known each other for such a long time, and it's what you're used to, after all. I'd imagine your brains are still pretty scrambled, wouldn't want to make it worse by confusing you." He put his hands in his pockets and strolled casually forward. Bucky couldn't move. "When I heard there was a chance to...help out, of course I had to come."

It might have gone badly then, Bucky's dread entirely understandable, except Peggy Carter suddenly appeared between them and punched Alexander Pierce in the face. He staggered backwards, spinning in a half-circle, to meet Steve Rogers' fist rising in an uppercut that smashed his teeth together, and he crumpled to the ground. Steve kicked him hard in the ribs, growling low in his throat, as the younger Bucky stood between Bucky and the tableau of entirely deserved violence.

Bucky shook himself out of the terror-stricken stupor into which he'd been thrown. All he could do was gape as Peggy and Steve stood over Pierce, who gasped out, "I'm dead, which means you can't actually hurt me, so this is pointless."

"You _can_ feel pain, however, so it's not pointless at all," Peggy informed him and got him in the balls with the toe of her extremely pointy shoe. Pierce hissed like a tea kettle, curling to protect his vulnerable parts a little too late to do any good.

Peggy and Steve moved away, not incidentally placing themselves between Pierce and Bucky, and, after a few long minutes, Pierce clambered to his feet, standing a little more hunched than usual.

"So one of you is going to take over? I don't think that's how it works."

"No," Steve said. "You're the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. We know there's no stopping this, but we're watching you, and we're not leaving you alone with Bucky."

"Fine with me. Unlike the three of you I was simply going to do my job. Nothing more, nothing less."

He was met with four near-identical stares of disbelief.

"Uh huh," said Bucky's younger self. "Next thing you'll be trying to sell us a bridge. One owner, only ever used it to get to church on Sundays."

"Funny. If we could get on with this?"

"And you're supposed to be silent," Peggy snapped. "The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come doesn't say a word, and unless you want another taste of how you _can't be hurt_ , you'd be wise to emulate him."

Pierce mimed locking his lips then gestured at Bucky to follow, striding forward to lead the way and they followed in his wake.

They stepped out into a hotel room, standing behind Steve and Sam, who were staring fixedly at a television. There was no sign of Christmas, no trees, no lights, only the grin on Pierce's face, as gleeful as a child who's been given every toy in Santa's sleigh.

The aftermath of an explosion played across the television, flames and smoke and a fire crew trying to extinguish it, and across the bottom the text: United Nations Complex Bombed. A voice-over read out the details, people injured, people dead, including a king, and a suspect identified: _James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier, the infamous HYDRA agent linked to numerous acts of terrorism and assassinations._

Bucky's heart _stopped_. He looked to Steve. Not the younger Steve, his ghostly escort, standing behind him with a hand pressed against his back, but _Steve,_ Steve who was here in the future watching the past repeat itself. He was blank, jaw working. A blonde woman stepped forward and said she had to go to work and then they were whisked away.

"No!" Bucky turned on Pierce. "No, take me back. I need to know. I need to know more, I need to know what they're saying! I need to know what happened!"

Pierce lifted his hands in a _what can you do_ gesture and Bucky wanted to _murder_ him.

"Is that right? Was what they were saying right?"

Pierce waved his hand in a magician's _ta da_ and emergency lighting flashed as a body flew past. They all instinctively ducked—all but Pierce, who leaned on a concrete wall, looking quietly pleased. There were bodies on the ground, distant sounds of sirens, and Bucky searched for any hint as to where they were.

The body was followed by _him_ , but not him. It was the Winter Soldier. What the news had reported must be true. Here in the future, he was once more the Soldier.

He shuddered all over, cold sinking deep into his heart, and he wanted to scream a warning when he saw Sam, because the Winter Soldier almost took Sam's head off, and it was _his_ face and _his_ hands, but even here he could see there was nothing home behind those eyes. There was no sign of _him,_ but it didn't make it any easier to watch the Soldier try and kill Sam. He was grateful Sam was fast and skilled, because he survived, until the Soldier caught him by the neck and hurled him away to strike the ground, limp as a rag doll.  

Then Steve was throwing himself against the Soldier, and god, was he even trying? Every move was defensive, he was deflecting every blow, every punch, every attempt to _kill him_ , but he wasn't returning them. "Fight, you idiot. Where's your shield? He'll kill you and _he won't care._ Damnit, Steve, _he's not me_."

The Soldier threw Steve down an elevator shaft and Bucky ran to look, terrified at what he'd find, except the world dissolved before he could get there, dissolved into blackness and nothing, and he threw himself at Pierce, grabbed him by the lapels of his bloody suit and shook him. "Is Steve alive? Is Sam? What happened? How did I become the Soldier again? Tell me!"

His only answer was a deeply satisfied smile and Pierce once more mimed locking his lips then gestured helplessly, but there was a wicked satisfaction in his eyes. Bucky shoved him away and dragged both hands through his hair, not caring that he snagged strands on his metal plates.

But it wasn't over, not yet. Pierce lifted his hand and pointed and Bucky walked forward into a dark, deserted lab, filled with technology and equipment so far beyond anything he'd ever seen it could have been plucked from a sci-fi novel. In the distance he could hear the sound of celebrations—not Christmas sounds, nothing like Christmas sounded, but celebratory voices had a distinctive ring.

In a corner of the lab was a narrow, high-tech chamber, lit faintly by a single, dim light.

"I don't want to." His feet were already carrying him forward. "I don't want to see." The front of the chamber was glass, but it was frosted over, obscuring the figure inside. Only a curve of the face showed, an edge of shoulder. It didn't matter. He knew who it was.

It was him.

Gentle hands turned him away from the sight of himself, once more frozen in a cryo-chamber, and Peggy's kind brown eyes met his.

"It doesn't have to happen," Steve told him.

The younger Bucky glared at Pierce and said, "It's time for you to go. We can take it from here."

Pierce smiled mockingly and vanished. The air shimmered and they reappeared in Bucky's darkened apartment, the only light the glow from the three ghosts.

"That's what'll happen if I keep going on the way I am now. History repeating itself. Someone turning me into a weapon. How many people died in that explosion? How many people got hurt? How many people did the Soldier kill?" He couldn't quite keep his voice from shaking.

"It's a _possible_ future," his younger self said, hand landing on his shoulder and squeezing hard. "I don't care who you are, I don't care if you're a spirit, or a, a god, or a whathaveyou, no one and nothing can predict the future perfectly. There's too many variables."

"But it's possible." He sank down to sit on his couch.  

"Yeah," Steve said, and his voice was very gentle. "It is."

Peggy moved to stand in front of him, then carefully knelt and rested a hand on his knee. He lifted his head and met her eyes. "Forget about possible futures for a minute."

"Easy for you to say." It was still rippling through him, and that voice from the future, saying _James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier, HYDRA agent,_ was spiky and clawed, tearing him up inside _._

"I know." She squeezed his knee. "But you've trusted me, trusted us, this far. Can you do it for a little longer?"

In answer he laid his hand over hers, his metal hand, and all she did was smile, offering up trust of her own. His younger self's hand was on his shoulder, and Steve was hanging over the couch, leaning against his back.

"This isn't about possible futures, it's about you. It's about now. It's about staying where you are. If you stay forever in a single moment, you'll end up trapped there. Afraid to go forward, afraid to reach out. You deserve more than that, more than just existing. And I think you want more than that. You're allowed to want. You're allowed to have it."

Bucky bowed his head, because he knew she was right, this was just existing, this life he was living. It wasn't bad, it had served its purpose, but that was all it was. Every day afraid someone was going to come for him, every choice made with an eye towards defending against that day, shying away from anyone who might see _him_.

They'd answered the call and come for him, the three of them, they'd broken the rules for him—although considering who he was talking about, breaking the rules was next thing to second nature—and they'd been with him every step of the way.

They'd beat the hell out of Alexander Pierce and that'd been beautiful, the noise Pierce had made when Peggy'd kicked him in the balls something he'd treasure forever.

They'd shown him he wasn't alone. They'd shown him he didn't want to be.

James Buchanan Barnes didn't really exist anymore. Not the boy who'd buttoned Steve into the front of his coat. Not the man who'd gone to war. Not the Sergeant who'd fought with _Captain America and the Howling Commandos_. He wasn't even the man who'd fallen from the train. Those men were gone and he wasn't sure exactly who'd been left behind.

He knew who he wasn't, though.

That voice from the future was wrong. He wasn't the Winter Solder and he never had been.

All he was...was himself. Maybe he needed to figure out who that was, but maybe he didn't need to do it alone.

 


	8. Stave V: The End of It

"Steve. He's been looking for me. I think I want him to find me." Bucky gently caught Peggy's hand and drew her to her feet as he stood. "But I need to go now. If I wait until tomorrow," he glanced through the darkened window, "until today—when is it, anyway?"

"It's Christmas day, about four am," his younger self said.

Bucky froze, his metal hand still wrapped around Peggy's, because how did that work? One spirit a day for three days, his younger self had told him, and it was still Christmas Day? He shook his head and let go of Peggy's hand. Worrying about _time_ when he'd just spent possibly-three-days with the Ghost of Christmas Past, the Ghost of Christmas Present, and the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come seemed a little like worrying about spilling water down your front while you were standing on the deck of the Titanic. "Right. If I wait until tomorrow I'm afraid I'll lose my nerve, and it's gonna take me weeks to get there as it is. Unless you guys can take me?"

Before any of them could answer a flash of light filled the dim apartment and a figure appeared. He could have been the personification of bureaucracy, with his neat grey tweed suit, Windsor-knotted grey tie, slightly receding hairline and overall air of fussiness, but he cast no shadow and, if someone were to look closely, they'd see his mirror-polished shoes didn't quite touch the floor.

"You," Steve snapped, stepping forward, but the younger Bucky's hand on his shoulder held him back.

"Who's this?" Bucky asked.

"This is the... _gentleman_ from BCS who's responsible for this entire thing," Peggy replied, voice laced with contempt. "Who refused to listen when we told him you should never have been put through any of this." 

Bucky studied him, not really sure what to think, and finally said, "Shouldn't you be more...magical looking?"

"I was once, a very long time ago." For a single moment, gone as fast as it appeared, golden light gleamed along the edge of his grey suit. "And," he said to Peggy, "I've concluded you were correct. The Subj— No. _Bucky_ never should have been selected. The staffer his file was originally assigned to asked if there could have been a mistake and I didn't listen." He directed his gaze to Bucky. "I would like to apologise to you, if you'll accept it."

Bucky really wasn't sure what to say. He glanced at Steve, who still looked mutinous, and at his younger self, who looked satisfied. "It turned out okay," he finally offered, because it had. The future he'd seen was his worst nightmare brought to life, and he'd do almost anything to ensure it didn't come to pass, but that wasn't why he was going to let Steve find him. He was going to let Steve find him because he wanted to be found. Because he was tired of just existing. Because he didn't want to live forever frozen in a moment. He wanted to find out what came next.

"That's down to the quality of your spirits and, if I may say so, the quality of yourself. Most people won't be able to say the same. That's why beginning tomorrow I'm going to overhaul the way we do business. And I'm going to recorporate the staffer that first recognised the problems with your file. Once upon a time, before files and checklists and protocols and the BCS, what we did meant something. It was about people, it was about helping them avoid a terrible future before it was too late. It was about making the world _better_. We can be that again."

A long pause followed that no one seemed to know how to fill. He adjusted his cuffs and cleared his throat. "But before that, I can do something for you. Geographical relocation's simple enough and not all that unusual. Generally the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come takes care of it." An unimpressed silence followed his words. "Although I understand why that wasn't feasible in this instance. It's Christmas Day here, but it's still Christmas Eve in New York City. That is where you need to go?"

Steve gave him a hard look. "You've been spying on us?"

"Monitoring. Part of my duties."

"Yet you didn't prevent us from bending the rules," Peggy said, arching an eyebrow.

He avoided both her eyes and the unspoken question, choosing instead to say to Bucky, "Come here and I'll send you on your way."

"Can I say goodbye first?"

"Of course."

Bucky opened his mouth and no words came out. How did he say goodbye? Peggy stepped forward and smoothed his shirt down, reached up and tucked his hair behind his ear. "Remember what I said. Steve had many dreams."

"Peggy, you're—" Being without words was nothing new, but this was more, his heart full to overflowing, and he shook his head helplessly, voice dropping to something near a whisper as he said, "You're amazing."

"And don't you forget it," she told him, that whisper of sorrow in her eyes, almost hidden behind her bright grin, and he bowed his head as she kissed his cheek.

"Never," he vowed. "You came for me when you didn't have to. I'll never forget that."

"Bucky." She cupped his cheek. "Of course I had to."

She stepped back, ceding her place to his younger self, who told him, "You're gonna be just fine."

"Know that, do you?"

"'course I do. It's gonna be me and him," he reached out and snagged Steve, pulling him in with an arm around his neck, "against the world again. How could you not be okay?"

Steve gave the younger Bucky an unimpressed look. "It's not that simple."

"I know that, you idiot," the younger Bucky whispered back, as if Bucky wasn't standing right there. "I'm trying to send him off on a positive note."

"How about sendin' him off on a _not lying to him_ note?" Steve suggested.

"It's not lyin' to him if he knows it's not true."

"If he knows it's not true, then why bother sayin' it?!"

"Because it's what you do!"

Bucky stifled a laugh, snorted ungracefully as it almost escaped, caught identical glares from each of them, and gave up, giving in to full-throated laughter. "You, I remember that. I remember carrying on like that."

"See, it worked!" his younger self said.

"Don't even try and pretend you planned that," Steve replied, elbowing the younger Bucky in the ribs, then he stepped forward and hugged Bucky. Bucky's laughter faded and he wrapped his arms around him. He was so small, so thin, he'd forgotten, his mind had forgotten, but there was something in his body, buried deep in his bones, that remembered this. That remembered the feel of this Steve.

There were too many words and not nearly enough, and nothing could ever live up to the feelings thumping against his ribs, so he settled on a whispered, "Thank you."

Steve shook his head and squeezed hard, hanging on like he'd never let go, and then the younger Bucky was gently pulling Steve away and reaching up to wrap one hand around Bucky's shoulder, grasping him by the chin with the other, tugging him down until they were eye to eye. "Trust Steve. With everything, you hear me? _Everything_. Trust Steve and keep looking forward. You keep doin' both of those and it _is_ gonna work out." Bucky nodded and his younger self pulled him into a tight hug, then let go and went to stand next to Steve.

Bucky, with a last sweeping glance that took in all three of them, presented himself to the definitely-not-a-human in the grey tweed suit. "I'm ready."

"Brace yourself, this might make you dizzy."

Bucky braced himself, shoulders back, feet apart, then faltered slightly. "What do I say when I see him?"

"I'm the last spiritual entity you should be asking for advice, but if all else fails?" He pressed something into Bucky's hand. "Cheat."

With a wave of his hand that left golden light trailing in its wake, he swirled Bucky through the air to send him stumbling into the hallway outside Steve's apartment.

Bucky looked down and opened his fingers. He was holding a sprig of mistletoe, green and fresh and fragrant.

He choked out a watery laugh. The door was in front of him and Bucky lifted his arm, hesitated, then rested it against the door and pressed his forehead against his forearm. Trying to work up the courage to knock. Eventually, after maybe five or ten minutes—time had become harder to keep track of since he'd been pulled back and forth through it over the last possibly-a-few days—he rapped his metal knuckles on the wood without bothering to lift his head.

He heard Steve moving around inside, a pause, and then the door opened. Bucky shifted enough to peek at him over the top of his arm.

Steve's jaw worked, but no sound came out. His eyes were wide and shocked, like he'd been stabbed in the gut. Bucky let his arm fall. He didn't know what to say and from the looks of it neither did Steve.

Wordlessly he held out his hand, offering the bit of green. Steve took it, and he must have recognised it for what it was, because when he looked back up his eyes were wet. "Bucky," he whispered.

"More or less."

Steve swallowed hard and hopelessly, helplessly, opened his arms.

Before everything, he would have shied away, but before everything he wouldn't have been here at all. Bucky stepped forward and Steve folded his arms around him, his touch so delicate it was like being wrapped in clouds and cotton candy. He could feel Steve's heart beating against his chest, so fast he thought it was going to take off right through his rib cage, and before he knew it he was squeezing Steve tight, holding on like if he didn't one of them would be snatched away.

"Bucky," Steve choked out and pulled him closer, an obvious impossibility but still he managed it.

"I'm here." He pressed his face into Steve's shoulder.

 

 

"We've been looking for you. Everywhere."

"You found me."

Steve laughed, and it was watery, Bucky's shirt was getting wet, but Steve _laughed_. "I didn't think of checking outside my door."

"You always did make things tougher than they had to be."

Steve's hands clenched tight in Bucky's shirt and he squeezed harder, clinging desperately, then made himself step back. "Are you coming inside?"

"If you'll have me."

"For as long as you want," Steve said, and when Bucky was safely inside he shut the door and leaned on it, watching Bucky out of wondering eyes.

The urge from the coffee shop rose, irresistible, undeniable, and he stepped closer. Steve's eyes never left him. "Can I do something?"

Steve nodded.

He lifted his hand, his right hand, tucking the metal one behind his back, and skimmed his fingers along Steve's cheek, tracing the lines of bone beneath. Steve sucked in a breath but he didn't flinch, he didn't pull away, and Bucky kept going, skimming up and around his eye, down his nose, finished by cradling his jaw. Steve was whole and perfect and he leaned into his touch like it was something good.

"My turn to do something?" Steve asked.

Bucky nodded.

"I want to use this." He raised the mistletoe. "Can I?"

Steve was watching him carefully. Uncertainty, anticipation, nervousness shivered through him. He didn't know, he wasn't sure, he wanted but he didn't—but he nodded again and Steve, after a brief pause, gently kissed his forehead. Bucky let out a long, slow breath, and Steve rested his forehead against Bucky's. "You're here," Steve said quietly. "Everything else we can figure out." 

They ended up on the couch, Bucky tucked under Steve's arm, Steve looking like every Christmas dream he'd ever had had come true at once. As he carefully leaned against Steve, letting his head rest against his shoulder, movement in the window caught his eye.

They were there, all three of them, Bucky and Peggy and Steve, like reflections in the glass against the night. Steve pointed at the Christmas tree, which shivered slightly, and suddenly, beneath the branches, tucked among the few wrapped gifts, were his backpack and his bags and a pile of notebooks.

Bucky blinked and glanced at his Steve, who didn't seem to have noticed, then back at...possibly also his Steve, and mouthed _thank you._

Peggy was staring at him expectantly, eyebrows raised. Bucky looked back in confusion and, judging by her expression, if it hadn't been beneath her dignity she'd have rolled her eyes. A piece of paper fluttered into existence on the couch next to him. He picked it up, read it, and almost choked trying not to laugh.

"Bucky?"

"Here, read this." He shoved the paper at Steve and settled deeper into the curve of his body.

Steve's brows pulled down as he read it. " _God bless us, every one_? Seriously, Bucky?"

"I guess someone had to say it."

For a moment Steve simply stared, and then he laughed and tossed the paper on the floor in favour of hugging Bucky and since Bucky had discovered he was in favour of being hugged, at least when it was Steve doing the hugging, he couldn't find it in himself to protest. Steve tucked his face into the curve of Bucky's shoulder, his entire body shaking with laughter, and Bucky held him close.

One by one the spirits disappeared: Steve, so much younger than the one Bucky had come home to—because this was home, he thought, this man who was holding him and laughing—gave him a broad smile as he faded away. Bucky, so much younger than the one who'd come home, tapped two fingers to his forehead and he was gone. Peggy, her crown of holly shining green and red, clenched her fist over her heart in a fierce salute and shimmered away.

The days and the weeks and the months that followed weren't easy, but then Bucky had never expected them to be. They were, however, easier with Steve by his side, and in the days and the weeks and the months that followed he found himself reluctant to let go of Steve at all.

Sam did turn out to hold something of a grudge, but he was so taken aback by Bucky's sheer relief at seeing him alive, since the last time Bucky had seen him Sam had been possibly—almost definitely—dead from a snapped neck at the hands of someone wearing his body, it never developed into anything serious...however much their constant bickering drove Steve to distraction. As time passed, an uncharitable person might have begun wondering if _that_ , rather than any lingering pseudo-grudges, had become the point.

When the day came, not all that far into the days and the weeks and the months, that Steve cupped Bucky's face, cradling his rough-stubbled cheeks like they were something delicate, and bent his head to kiss him, Bucky was already moving to catch Steve's mouth in a kiss of his own.

Bucky had the vague thought, as far as he could manage _thinking_ when one of Steve's hands was sliding around to tangle in his hair and Bucky was hauling him closer, metal arm firmly around Steve's waist, that he should have grabbed the mistletoe. They'd saved it, of course, pressed safely between the pages of a book (which one, exactly, will be left to your imagination) but they didn't need it. This was everything he wanted, no cheating required.

Possessed by a sudden spirit of mischief—because after all, wasn't it how the story ended?—Bucky grinned against Steve's mouth. He pulled back just enough to say, "And God bless us," while he hooked a thumb in Steve's waistband to tug him closer, then pressed a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth as he murmured, "every one."

Steve's shoulders shook with laughter and Bucky joined in, but it didn't stop Steve from kissing him again, and again, and once more, and truth was they never really stopped, not then or for the rest of their days.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish you all the most wonderful end of the year, whatever you may or may not be celebrating, and may the new year bring you everything you could hope for. <3 (And if you wanted to go give Alby some extra end of year good wishes for the incredible work she's done on this story, you could reblog [the art for this chapter here](http://artgroves.tumblr.com/post/168922277114/bucky-steve-choked-out-and-pulled-him-closer).)


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